


and I will rise up from the ashes now

by ariadne_odair



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7617442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadne_odair/pseuds/ariadne_odair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk has a complex relationship with food. He also has a complex relationship with a certain first officer of the US Enterprise. For a genius, Jim is kind of an idiot for not realising this was going to come back to bite him in at some point. </p><p>In which Spock is protective, the crew is protective, Jim is oblivious (and definitely not pining), and they all get there in the end.</p><p>- Please don't put my works on GoodReads or any other external sites! -</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I will rise up from the ashes now

**Author's Note:**

> I have never ever written for this fandom before! So if this is out of character or total crap, than there's that. 
> 
> Fair warning, in this fic Jim discusses Tarsus and struggles with his eating habits because of it. There are definitely some sad moments, but over all it has a happy ending. But definitely a heads up that there is serious discussion of poor eating patterns.
> 
>  
> 
> \- - Please don't put my works on GoodReads or any other external sites! - -

The thing about seriously traumatising events that fuck you up before you even get your first stubble, is that they manifest in random and intricate little ways. This is super fun and exciting for everyone involved, which in this case includes James T Kirk.

After Tarsus - because that’s how his life is catalogued from then on, before and after Tarsus - Jim wouldn’t eat at all. For months they had him hooked to a drip, needles sharp in his veins, the glare of the hospital lights even sharper. In a totally sadistic way it was kinda funny - he now had all the food he wanted, but he couldn’t eat any of it. How could he explain that it just turned to ash in his mouth? That the moment he took a bite he wanted to throw it up again, harsh and gagging at the back of his throat.

They make him go to the therapist a handful of times, but Jim can bullshit with the best of them, so that amounted to a fat load of nothing. Dr Clarke - call me Mandy, honey - in her spacious office in Iowa had nothing on a thirteen year old Jim Kirk.

Anyway, so Jim goes through stages of not wanting to eat. He then goes through stages of overeating, to the point of where his stomach hurts. He steals packets of ham from the fridge and shoves it under his bed. Bags of crisps are tucked into his underwear drawer. His wardrobe becomes home to an assortment of chocolate biscuits.

Winona finds out one time, when the ham begins to smell, and she cries for a full hour. Jim drops the habit after that.

His eating habits spiral and spin, flatline and rise and dive again. It gets better as he gets older, more controlled. Sometimes he even manages three square meals a day. (Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes Bones has to physically wrap his hand around a protein bar. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes). He’s also fucking allergic to everything, and he can’t tell if that’s a gift or a curse. (Bones would say that latter, loudly and with a number of expletives and then jab him with a hypo.)

Anyway. Jim Kirk has a complex relationship with food. He also has a complex relationship with a certain first officer of the USS Enterprise. For a genius, Jim is kind of an idiot for not realising this was going to come back to bite him in at some point.

 

-

 

 

_one - two months as captain_

Jim always eats in the mess hall. It’s probably not proper protocol, there’s a separate room for senior staff and everything, but Jim doesn’t want to be that kind of captain. He wants to get to know the people he works with, wants them to get to know him. Eating alone promotes an air of superiority, and Jim isn’t here for that bullshit, so mess hall it is.

It’s also cool because it means people can drop by and ask his opinion on stuff. Once Ensign Hall from engineering asked for his signature on something and Jim was in the middle of a huge yawn, and she fully smiled for half a second. Another time Lieutenant T’kora dropped her breakfast everywhere and Jim helped her clean it up, and now she waves at him in the halls. It’s actually really cute. And completely platonic because Jim isn’t going to sleep with his any of his crew, at all, ever. It’s a dubious area of consent and the words ‘dubious’ and ‘consent’ should never be paired together, so no thank you.

Jim grabs a bowl of cereal from the replicator and a glass of orange juice. He makes his way over to the table he always sits at. Bones is already sitting there, and Jim ruffles his hair as he flops in a chair.

“I’m not a damn puppy,” Bones scowls. He gives Jim a once over, rolling his eyes “How much sleep did you get last night? The bags under your eyes - “

Jim interrupts. “Not to cut off what would surely be a lively Southern metaphor, but I got a great sleep, thank you. Just woke up a bit early this morning, is all.”

Bones snorts like he doesn’t believe him and stabs his bacon like he wishes it was Jim’s head.

“So aggressive,” Jim says, just to be a dick. “Did you ever consider anger management class - “ He bursts into laughter when Bones kicks him under the table, like the actual twelve year old he is. “Hey, if I bruise you’re stitching me up!”

This starts Bones on his scheduled morning rant about all the reckless and life endangering situations in which he has actually had to stitch Jim up. Jim stirs his cereal and says ‘no’ at various intervals, just to set Bones off again.

At some point Spock walks over to their table, and Jim ignores the way his stomach flips over. Jim is not actually a twelve year old girl, so there’s definitely no way a horde of butterflies have settled under his ribcage.

It’s probably an instinctive flight or fight mechanism kicking in when the guy who strangled you approaches. Saving the world does not best friends forever make, and while Spock hasn’t choked him recently, in the two months Jim has captained the Enterprise they haven’t exactly bonded. They’re like. Co-workers. How lame is that? Acquaintances. Bros who defeated Nero and now skirt around each other like wounded cats.

Jim always feels like he’s skating on ice when he’s around Spock. Tentative and fragile and splintering at the nearest pressure, which makes Jim want to smash his foot straight through the surface on impulse. Because Spock would hurl those icy shards right back, because Spock would turn over entire lakes if Jim was too.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim says cheerfully, because he’s nothing if not an optimist. Plus it makes him feel like his has the advantage if he speaks first. Jim probably actually is a twelve year old boy.

Spock inclines his head slightly. “Good morning, Captain. Doctor.”

Right, that’s probably as good as it’s going to get, so Jim goes back to his cereal. It looks gross, but Jim probably won’t go into anaphylactic shock so. Jim stirs the cereal. It’s one of those multi-grain ones. Without thinking about it, Jim begins to pick the raisins out. He scoops them to the side, dumps them on a napkin, then goes back to stirring the cereal.

He’s so absorbed in doing this that when Spock says his name, Jim jumps in surprise. It startles him so much that he drops his spoon, milk splashing over the edge. Spock is probably going to take this as further proof of how stupid and illogical humans are, but then Jim looks up and shit.

Something tugs in his chest and all he can see is Spock’s eyes. They look black but they’re not, Jim realises. They’re actually brown, the colour of dark chocolate, sharp and deep and warm. His eyelashes are surprisingly delicate, brushing his skin as softly as a butterfly's wing.

“Do you find dried grapes displeasing?” Spock asks - for what Jim gathers in the second time - and he snaps out of it. “If seems illogical to choose that breakfast supplement if you dislike the components, especially as there are others provided.”

Jim feels his jaw drop open. Spock is still staring at him, but his eyebrow has moved a centimetre which means he thinks Jim has lost the plot entirely. “Um.”

“Furthermore,” Spock continues. “It is unsanitary to dispose of them in that manner.”

Jim shuts his jaw. “I like raisins.”

Spock blinks. Fuck. Jim really did break him. Now he’s going to have to call Pike and ask for a reboot manual. Sarek is going to destroy him. And Uhura. And Chekov is going to have pick between his favourite parents and that is just not okay, because Chekov is like. Ten.

“I like raisins,” Jim continues desperately. “I just don’t - want to eat them.”

Bones is shaking with silent laughter. Jim is going to murder him.

“I see,” Spock answers, which means he really doesn’t. Jim considers face planting into his cereal. He rises, hands wrapped around his tray. “As we are both attending Alpha shift, it is probable we will reconvene on the bridge, Captain,” he says a little stiffly, and then he turns and walks away.

Jim waits until Spock’s definitely left the hall because he slaps his palms over his face. “Kill me.”

“Kid, you should come with a hazard warning,” Bones sputters, and then the asshole doesn’t stop laughing for the rest of breakfast.

 

-

 

Incredibly, the next incident after the ‘dried grapes debacle’ is even worse. Thankfully Bones isn’t there to laugh his ass off this time, because there’s an outbreak of flu or something and he’s stuck in med bay. He keeps sending Jim these really passive aggressive messages on his PADD. Jim was going to bring him some breakfast because he’s an excellent best friend, but he’s a bit scared to go down there in case of a stealth hypo attack.

Jim’s standing at the drink station when Spock pops up out of nowhere. They probably teach you that at Vulcan school, how to appear out of nowhere like a pointy eared panther. Jim doesn’t jump half a foot, mainly because he’s trying to convince Spock his captain isn’t a startled deer.

“Hi, Spock,” Jim says, in a totally normal voice. Spock is all lean and muscled and in that damn blue shirt, and Jim thinks brown eyes, brown eyes, brown eyes, and wants to smack himself. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Spock’s eyes narrow minutely. “Captain, as you - “

“Yeah, yeah, statistically probable, I know. It’s a human joke. Saying. I mean I guess sometimes you might actually be surprised to see someone, but mostly it’s meant ironically.”

“I will make a note of it,” Spock replies slowly. “Will you be procuring a grain based subsistence again?”

Jim has a really terrible feeling about where this is going to go. “I’m having cereal, yeah.”

Spock nods. Jim is going to cry. “There are four brands today that do not include desiccated fruit. I can show you them, if you wish.”

Jim scrubs his fists over his eyes, can’t quite help the groan that slips from his mouth. “Jesus, Spock, I’m not an idiot. I know which cereal doesn’t have raisins. I like them, I just don’t _want_ to fucking eat them.”

It comes out sharper than he means too, harsher, and that just makes him feel even more like a jerk because this is probably Spock’s way of being kind. Of helping Jim.

Spock’s closed up, Jim can see the way his shoulders stiffen and his eyes shutter. Brown eyes, he thinks, and his chest aches. “I am well aware of your intelligence, Captain, considering your aptitude tests and academy results were way above average, and far higher than those of your peers. I was merely attempting to guide you towards a more palatable food source.”

Jim’s throat closes up and he just stares helplessly. Spock turns and leaves. Jim watches him go and doesn’t have breakfast that morning.

 

-

 

After Alpha shift he mopes in med bay for a bit. He knows it’s bad because Bones only hypos him once. Bones even gives him some brain scans to look at and a protein bar, until Jim makes a remark on his parenting skills and then he gets kicked out. It cheered Jim up for five seconds though, so it was worth it.

Jim has never been a coward, never one to dodge confrontation, so after dinner he makes his way up to Spock’s quarters. He screws his hands into fists while he’s waiting, chewing on his bottom lip.

Spock’s door opens with a hiss. “Can I talk to you?” Jim blurts before Spock has a chance to say anything, and then he barrels through the door, and shit, shit, shit, if he could stop acting like a total loser for five minutes that would be great, thanks.

Spock’s quarters are - clean. His bed is made, PADD neatly placed on the desk. Jim can make out blue science shirts hanging in the wardrobe, and a meditation mat rolled up and placed by the window.

Spock is gazing at him impassively. He’s not in a science shirt, just in the long sleeved black undershirt. He’s standing at perfect parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. “Can I be of assistance, Captain?”

Jim swallows. “Is it okay if I sit down?”

Spock hesitates, then inclines his head. Jim perches on the edge of Spock’s bed, folds his hands together. Then he realises he’s acting like a virgin at a pretty girl’s house, and clears his throat. “I wanted to apologise for earlier. For snapping at you like that.”

Spock walks over to the bed and sits next to him, copying Jim’s posture. “An apology is not necessary.” Jim exhales, but then Spock side eyes him, and his heart starts thumping again. “An explanation may be useful though, to prevent further offence.”

Jim tugs a hand through his hair. “You didn’t offend me, Spock. It wasn’t anything you did, just - “ He freezes, because this is it, isn’t it? This is that toe over the knife edge, the conscious decision to place your bleeding heart in someone’s hands and see what they do. Jim’s not sure he can hand over a vital organ just yet.

“I - “ Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. “Some stuff happened to me, before. And because of it my eating patterns aren’t always - logical. Sometimes I don’t eat, or I eat too much or I pick parts of my food out of bowl. It’s worse when I’m stressed about something.”

Spock considers this, then asks, “Are you under undue stress, Captain?”

Jim laughs, and it sounds wet. “I’m terrified. I’ve been Captain for two months and I still have no idea what I’m doing. I’m niit saying I don’t live, breathe, sleep the Enterprise, because I do, I just have all these people relying on me _and I’m pissing myself.”_

It’s quiet after his outburst. Even the air seems to still, like it doesn’t wish to disturb the tension. Jim’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire. He feels stupid, childish, everything bursting out like that. It’s not like he’s in a constant state of panic, it’s just hard and new and unfamiliar, and he’s scared.

“Sometimes I write to my mother.”

Jim whips his head around to look at Spock so fast that his neck cracks. Spock’s head is bowed slightly. The shadows dance over his face, his eyes darker than ever. He doesn’t look at Jim.

“I conduct correspondence on my PADD,” Spock continues, voice low and smooth. “And save them as drafts.” Spock shakes his head. “This is of course illogical, as she is no longer alive. Even if she was, when Vulcan was destroyed so was her place of residence, which is where my mother was most likely to keep any communication devices. Any communication would simply ‘bounce back,’ as is the colloquial term.”

Jim’s heart throbs painfully in his chest, smacking against the sharp edges of his ribs. He doesn’t even realise he’s reaching for Spock until his fingers curl over a hard shoulder. Spock doesn’t flinch, so Jim cautiously runs a thumb over black fabric.

“She’d be proud of you,” Jim murmurs seriously. “She’d be so proud.” He doesn’t even know where it comes from, only knows there’s something fierce and burning behind his ribs, the words spilling over his lips.

Spock glances at him curiously. “You did not apologise.”

Jim blinks. “What?”

Spock shrugs. Jim can feel the muscle move under his hand. “Most humans reply with a variant on ‘I’m sorry,’”

“Oh. Well, I never saw the point in that. It’s never - it was never what I wanted to hear.”

“Indeed,” Spock replies, and they lapse into silence. Jim lets his hand fall from Spock’s shoulder. He can still feel the heat of Spock though, Vulcan biology he guesses, and their knees are almost touching.

“You are not broken,” Spock says into the darkness. He slants a look at Jim with clear eyes. “To think otherwise would be illogical.”

The hot, fierce thing in his chest flares and sparks like a bushfire, and all Jim can do is nod.

-

 

The next morning when Jim sits down, there is a handful of napkins neatly placed on his table.

 

-

 

_two - six months as captain_

“I’m going to poke it.”

“Do not,” Spock says stiffly, “poke it.”

Jim grins. He knows he must really be getting on Spock’s nerves because a little bit of exasperation bled into his tone just then. He gestures at the impressive bruise blooming on his forearm. It’s dyed red and purple, tinges of yellow around the edge. “It’s a human thing. Poking bruises.”

Spock gives him a look that says: that’s because humans are stupid, but he doesn’t actually say it. Jim kind of wishes he would because Spock being bitchy would make his day. Well, at this point anything would make his day.

Jim would almost be bored by the cliche of it all, if he wasn’t so frustrated. They’d been surveying a L class planet, one that Starfleet intel claimed was inhabited by a peaceful, primitive species. Naturally, peaceful and primitive turned out to be hostile and extremely good with spears and booby traps. Spock and Jim had had the ground literally give out beneath their feet, and now they’re waiting in a cell for the others to find them.

They’re both leaning against the wall, and Jim draws his knees up to his chest. “Starfleet intel sucks.”

“An accurate assessment.”

Jim laughs at that. “See, why aren’t you this sarcastic around everyone else? Bones doesn’t believe me when I say you have a sense of humour.”

“As Vulcans can’t lie, perhaps he should ask me,” Spock suggests, which just makes Jim laugh harder.

Something’s shifted in their relationship, the edges blunter now, softer. Spock will still fucking ream his ass - in front of the entire bridge - with Jim giving as good as he gets, but then they follow it up by stilted apologies. Recently, they’ve taken to sparring, which is generally Spock kicking his ass. This is then followed by Jim kicking Spock’s ass at chess, so Jim reckons it’s a fair trade off.

“I’m bored,” Jim whines, kicking his feet a little. “How long is Scotty going to take? Do you know how long we’ve been here?”

“One point zero three hours, Captain.”

“Oh.” Jim rests his chin on his knees. “That’s not that long.” Jim glances at Spock. “Also you can call me Jim. I think being held hostage counts as off duty.”

Spock stiffens minutely. “Very well.”

“Great,” Jim beams, because being overly enthusiastic is the only way he knows to combat Spock drawing further into himself. “Look at us bonding, we’ll be holding hands next.”

There’s an awkward pause. Spock’s cheeked are brushed with green. “Oh, shit. I didn’t actually - crap. Did I just offer to make out with you? I didn’t.” Jim’s face is on fire. “Oops.”

Spock looks even more horrified. Jim is going to die. “Jesus, okay so I’m taking a sexual harassment course the moment I get back.”

Jim has honestly no idea what Spock was about to say to that, because that’s when the door of the cell scrapes open. They both tense but a tray is shoved through and then it’s slammed shut immediately. Jim didn’t even see anyone on the other side. “I guess they’re feeding us.”

“How hospitable,” Spock says, as dry as the desert, and Jim laughs so hard his ribs hurt.

When Jim’s stopped laughing, he crawls over to look at the tray, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. It’s grey and purple and - “Oh my god, Spock, it moved.”

Jim scoots all the way back so he’s pressed against the wall. He grabs Spock’s sleeve, shaking it. “It moved, it moved!”

“Fascinating. They must eat their prey alive,” Spock notes, but he still looks a little green. “The provision of food suggest that they care - even minutely - for our well being.”

“If they cared about us they wouldn’t give us that,” Jim snaps. “There’s no way I’m touching that. Or eating it. Definitely not eating it.” Jim turns to Spock. “It’s all yours, have at it.”

The look on Spock’s face is reminiscent to the one he wore before he back handed Jim over a console. “As a vegetarian, I will not be consuming the creature either, Captain.”

“Fine,” Jim sighs. “Fair enough. Let’s hope that Scotty hurries up.” Spock just nods in agreement and they both lean back against the wall. The ground is cold against his skin and he shuffles uncomfortably.

Fifteen minutes later, their ‘meal’ has obviously has enough and crawls off the tray. Jim definitely doesn’t shriek, and he definitely doesn’t smack his head flailing around, and he definitely, definitely doesn’t jump into Spock’s arms like a Disney princess.

 

-

 

_three - eight months as captain_

They settle into a rhythm. Jim runs for his life and saves people and visits planets that haven’t even been charted. He feels his ship thrum beneath him and smiles; he feels his crew come together and breathes. Uhura sets up an xenolinguistics club and converses in a different language with every person she passes. Sulu teaches fencing and beats Jim good naturedly. Chekov no longer stutters when Jim calls on him, (he does blush though).

Uhura and Spock break up, which Jim is totally oblivious about. He only finds out because Valentine’s day comes and he lazily asks Spock if he wants any help picking a gift. This leads to an awkward conversation where Spock informs him ‘they terminated their relationship a month ago,’ and Jim hides in engineering for three hours.

Uhura and Spock still stay friends though, which is nice. It’s stilted for a bit but after a few weeks they start sitting together again for meals. Spock goes to xenolinguistics club too and Jim teases him but is actually kind of jealous. (He’s not really sure what of, so he just pushes it to the back of his mind and goes to hit a punch bag.)

Jim finishes alpha shift one night and heads down to the mess hall. He can see Uhura and Spock sitting together as he waits for the replicator. Sulu is sitting with them too, but he’s laughing with Chekov so Jim will get nothing out of him tonight. He watches Sulu point to something on his PADD. Chekov practically has hearts in his eyes, and Jim shakes his head in amusement.

“Nyota,” Jim sings, just to be annoying.

“Captain,” Uhura sings back. She sounds better than him which is annoying, but Uhura does a lot of things better than him so it’s not really new. “Oh, you got the sugar cookies.”

“Yeah,” Jim replies absently, reaching for the salt. He nudges Sulu. “Hey, did you get those new foils?”

Jim doesn’t really care about fencing foils he just likes to irritate Sulu. But then Chekov enthusiastically pipes up about how he wants to learn how to fence, so he has to answer Jim. Sulu has gone red. It’s great.

Chekov is explaining to Jim about a sport they have similar to fencing in Russia. Jim is asking him about it when he sees Uhura move out the corner of his eye. Chekov is happily answering his question when Uhura reaches for one of his sugar cookies, and Jim doesn’t even think before he reacts.

Uhura reaches for the cookie and Jim slaps her hand away, hard enough to make a noise. That would be bad enough but Jim also blurts, “That’s mine!” and his voice sounds raw to his own ears, raw and harsh and pleading.

There’s a deafening silence. Time slows, syrupy and saccharine. Jim swallows and it’s like glass, barbed wire and razor blades and he can’t speak. Everyone’s staring and Uhura’s holding her hand, eyes wide in shock.

Jim hates people taking his food, hates it, hates it, hates it. His therapist would have a lot to say about that. Bones does, and he’s pretty much Jim’s unofficial therapist anyway. He remembers dating back at the Academy. He remembers one girl flirtily trying to slide a chip off his plate, remembers a guy who wanted to do the whole cutesy feeding each other thing. Jim reacted just as badly then.

“Sorry,” Jim babbles. The blood is rushing in his ears. He shoves the plate away, stomach churning. Jim’s nothing if not a good liar though, so his voice is steady as he stands up, looking down at his PADD. “Scotty needs me in engineering, I better go check it out.”

His footsteps echo as he walks away.

 

-

 

He apologises to Uhura again the next day, tries to play it off with the curve of his lips and easy words. Uhura puts a hand to his shoulder, and it shocks him enough that he trails off.

“You don’t have to pretend around us,” she states clearly. “I’m an expert in communications, that means verbal and nonverbal. I can tell when someone’s reacting instinctively. And besides, you slap like a baby kitten.”

Jim protests for the sake of it, but she just rolls her eyes and leans up to kiss his cheek. Uhura laughs at the shock on his face and gives him a mock salute as she turns to go.

“You should really think about coming to xenolinguistics club,” she calls over her shoulder, and something loosens in his chest. He watches her greet a lieutenant, ponytail glossy and immaculate as it sways gently.

“Huh,” he says to no one particular, and presses the button for the turbolift.

 

-

 

Everyone else pretends nothing happens the next day, which Jim is immeasurably grateful for. Someone told Bones though because he doesn’t hypo Jim all day, and he ruffles Jim’s hair when he sees him in the hall. “Payback,” he mutters gruffly, but his hand squeezes the back of Jim’s neck.

Spock is already there when Jim gets to the bridge. Jim slides into the chair and asks Chekov for an update. It’s a pretty boring shift; Jim signs off on some reports and talks to Uhura. Then he’s even more bored and swings around in the chair some more. His legs dangle off the ground which is a bit embarrassing.

About halfway through his shift he gets a call from engineering - a real one this time. Both he and Spock go down. It’s a quick fix thankfully, and then he and Spock are going back up into the turbolift.

“Captain,” Spock says suddenly. “I wish to inquire after your health.”

Jim stares at him. “What?”

Spock sighs and presses the button to stop the turbolift. Shit. Jim’s really sent him off the edge now. “Please don’t strangle me,” Jim says quickly. “Oh god, are you an alien?”

Spock blinks. “Captain, I - “

“No, like a non-Spock alien. Why did you turn off the turbolift? I’m pretty certain - “ Jim freezes because what he was going to say was: I’m pretty sure I’ve had dreams that started like this. And isn’t that a startling and scary revelation that Jim is never going to touch, unless it’s very late at night and he’s tucked up in bed.

“I do not wish to do you physical harm,” Spock continues, which is definite proof he’s not fully Vulcan. “And I stopped the turbolift as I wished to discuss a matter with you and was unsure when there would be an opportune moment.” Spock pauses. “As you are not Vulcan, then I would indeed be alien to you - “

Jim holds up one hand. “I get it.” He squirms. “This is about what happened yesterday, isn’t it?”

Spock hesitates, then recites slowly, “I understand if you do not wish to discuss this matter with me.”

Jim runs a hand through his hair. “No, I - it’s cool. It’s nice you, you know. Checked in.”

“You seemed most alarmed when Lieutenant Uhura reached for your food,” Spock notes. Jim has never heard him speak like that before, low and soft. Gentle. “Considering the information you imparted to me before, it’s seems logical that your previous experiences were responsible for your abrupt reaction.”

Jim closes his eyes and let’s his head thunk back against the wall. It’s a testament to the missions they’ve endured, the blood that’s spilled and the bruises they’ve accumulated that he lets his guard down like this. Maybe saving the world does not best friends forever make, but it certainly creates something. “I don’t like people taking my food.”

“A logical response if there had been a time where you did not have much.” With his eyes closed he can’t tell where Spock is, can only hear his low voice settle in the air. “I assure you Lieutenant Uhura is not angered by your actions. She displayed only concern for your well being.”

“I know. She came to talk to me earlier.”

“She is also very wise.”

“That too.”

Jim opens his eyes. Spock’s eyes are very dark. Jim can't read them. “I’m okay, man. It just catches you out sometimes. Triggers is what Bones calls it. Can’t get away from them.” He shrugs. “But thanks for checking anyway.”

“Thanks are illogical,” Spock answers automatically, and reaches for the hydrolift button.

 

-

 

When Jim thinks about it later - very, very late and tucked in bed - he’s realises no one’s ever told him it was a logical response before. No one’s ever told him that his reactions make sense, and the fact Spock is the one to acknowledge it makes his stomach flip.

(James Tiberius Kirk is definitely a teenage girl and he’s also completely and utterly fucked.)

 

-

 

He and Spock have tonnes of reports to do, so Jim invites him to his quarters as half of them they both need to sign off on. Jim curls his legs beneath him on his bed and leans against the wall. Spock sits at the desk, and they occasionally speak, trading back and forth adjustments and details and alterations.

Jim suggests having something to eat the next time he glances at the clock. Spock agrees and his stretches as he shuffles over to the replicator. Spock gets his own bowl and Jim drags another chair round to the desk so they’re sitting opposite each other,

Jim peers at Spock’s bowl. “Your food is orange.”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “It is plomeek soup, a traditional Vulcan dish.”

“It’s orange,” Jim repeats, and Spock sighs.

“It is also orange.”

“Awesome,” Jim mumbles. He takes a sip from his mug, black coffee as they’ve still got a decent amount of paperwork to go. “I think we should sign off on Scotty’s proposal. I know it’ll take a little while but if we could add 0.5 to our warp drive, that could be a serious boost.”

“I agree. Furthermore if we assign additional members from the science department to the project, I calculate the project could be finished two point three times faster.”

“Oh yeah? You got anyone in mind?”

Spock tilts his head to one side. It’s a strangely human gesture and it makes Jim smile into his own meal. “Ensign L’Hona and Ensign Takara have both shown promise. I believed added responsibility could be useful in furthering their professional growth.”

“I’ll sign them off,” Jim agrees. “We’re at warp for the next week or so anyway, we can spare them.” He wrinkles his nose. “As long as nothing interesting happens.”

“It is better to not speak too hastily, Captain,” Spock says, and Jim laughs. Spock looks a little surprised at that, and when he looks down at his soup his ears are tinted green. Something shifts in his expression. “Would you like to try some?”

Jim frowns absently, scrolling through a PADD report. “What? Some of your orange soup?”

“Yes.”

“Sure, hang on.” Jim sets a report as high priority and downgrades the importance of another. Spock pushes his bowl towards him and Jim reaches for the spoon and takes a sip. It’s a tiny bit bland but nice. Jim thinks it tastes like sweet potatoes. “Hm, not my favourite but I get the appeal.”

He pushes the bowl back, picking his PADD back up. “You won’t believe what Bones told me the other day? You know Sulu’s been pining over Chekov forever and ever? Well Bones got him really drunk the other day, off duty obviously, and Sulu said - “

He looks up. Spock is staring at him, eyes wide. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Spock shakes his head slowly. “No, Captain.”

“I told you, it’s Jim. Anyway, Bones said Sulu was a total wreck. He thinks Chekov has a crush from that girl in engineering, can you believe it? So I told him - “

 

-

 

 

 

_three and a half_

 

Considering how fucked his eating habits are, it’s utter bullshit that Jim manages to contract food poisoning.

Bones warns him about, tells him there's been an outbreak, something about the replicators playing up. Jim decides there’s something to be said for simplicity, so he replicates a salad and then slides into the chair opposite Spock. They’re in the fancy officers longue because the documents they’re discussing are top secret and crap. It’s literally a work lunch. Jim feels like he should buy a pantsuit.

He’s feeling pretty good because they managed to save a whole village yesterday, and also because Spock did the lip twitch thing this morning when Jim told him that joke about jefferies tubes. (He’s not sure which event he places higher value on, which is slightly terrifying, but Jim’s accepted that’s how this is just going to be. Terrifying and exhilarating and a blur of dark, dark eyes.)

Here’s where it goes wrong:

Jim spears a piece of lettuce. “You know in a few months we’ll have been in space for a year, we should have a party or something.”

Spock cuts his own meal into delicate pieces. “In a few months it’ll be the Terran season of winter festivities. The two could be combined, perhaps.”

Jim puts down the piece of lettuce. “Wait, you’re on board with this? I thought you’d think parties were illogical or something.”

Spock gives him a scathing look. “Social events often improve cohesion and relationships between members. It has the possibility to boost crew morale by a considerable amount.” He pauses. “Lieutenant Uhura has also informed me of some - interesting traditional customs.”

Jim picks up his lettuce. “Like what?”

Spock hesitates for longer than normal, but Jim decides to wait him out. He pops the piece of lettuce in his mouth.

(This is where it goes wrong.)

“There is a particular tradition involving a certain hemiparasitic plant that I - Captain?”

“I’m fine,” Jim manages, which is when he throws up, all over Spock’s boots.

There have been many embarrassing moments in James Tiberius Kirk’s life, but if he had to rank it in order, this would be number one.

“I’m so sorry,” Jim gags, his throat aching, burning. He feels tears sting in his eyes, and he doubles over, vomiting again. It’s so horribly disgusting, so awful and gross and he can smell it, and his eyes scrunch shut involuntary. He hears footsteps so Spock must have left; Jim can’t blame him, even if something twinges painfully in his chest. He wouldn’t stick around either.

But then there’s strong hands guiding him to sit down. Jim opens his eyes and sees a trash can, and he grasps it like a lifeline. He moans as he vomits again, the metal biting into his hands as he squeezes tight.

He’s absently aware of a hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. Someone speaks quietly into a comm, and then another hand is brushing his hair back. Long fingers card through his hair, and he whimpers.

“It’s okay,” Spock murmurs. He must be close because Jim can feel the rumble of his voice. “I have contacted Dr McCoy. I believe you have contracted food poisoning. It has become frequent on the ship recently.”

“I threw up on your boots,” Jim moans, embarrassment burning through him. “I’m so sorry, please don’t quit. I won’t throw up on you again.”

Spock doesn’t reply to that. Jim hurls again, more liquid now than anything which is fucking vile, and when he’s done he becomes aware that Spock is shaking.

“Shit,” he gasps, blinking harshly. “Oh my god, did I make you cry?”

He glances blearily to the side, his eyes struggling to focus. “Wait are you - are you laughing?”

“No,” Spock replies, but his eyes are all soft, crinkled around the edges, and his lips are trembling.

“Vulcans cannot lie,” Jim snarls, and an honest to god laugh escapes Spock’s lips before Jim is forced to snap his head back over the waste basket.

“You’re such a dick,” he pants indignantly. “You - “

But then there are long fingers in his hair again, a strong arm sliding carefully around his waist. “Stop talking, ashayam,” Spock murmurs, and Jim is fully ready to call him out on whatever Vulcan trash talk that is, but then Bones turns up with a hypo and everything fades out.

 

-

 

_four - eleven months as Captain - shore leave_

Eating is easier when it’s small. Bones is the one who works it out; he’s Jim’s roommate at the academy and he gets irate at all the meals Jim misses. It’s not even deliberate; Jim meant three years and he doesn’t want to be a good captain, he wants to be a decent one. So he takes xenolinguistics class and a first aid course and goes to the gym four times a week. He takes extra commands classes, learns about anything and everything, all the puzzle pieces that are going to add up to one, shining star ship.

Jim doesn’t even sleep with that many people either, but rumours spread like wildfire and people are watching him anyway. He’s genuinely way too busy for too many hookups, something that cracks Bones up every time he grumbles about it. This paired with a general disregard for eating anyway means he’s skips meals almost absent mindedly.

It gets Bones’ back up, so he starts leaving little packets of fruit around. Grapes or almond seeds or raisins, small and easy to eat and portable. He leaves protein bars too, because Jim can rip them open and have them as he goes. It’s easier somehow, feels like less of a test, less of a pressure, and Jim feels his battered edges smooth out.

(Jim actually loves Bones a whole lot, and he doesn’t have to tell him because Bones knows.)

Eleven months in they have their first shore leave. It’s on a planet called Vega Nine; similar to Earth in most respects, except that their water is lilac and they have twenty hour days. There’s a buzz in the air, palatable in the hours before they dock. Most of the crew are talking about hitting the bars - Chekov is finally eighteen now, but he still comes to check with Jim.

He’s all bambi eyes and curls, and an irrational part of Jim wants to swaddle him in blankets and stick him front of a Disney film. Christ, Jim’s so old. “Look, just - don’t get too drunk okay? Drink lots of water in between and stay with Uhura. She’s smart. And if someone spikes your drink you kick the shit out of them, okay?”

“Yes, Keptin,” Chekov answers earnestly. “I am wery good at self defence, Sir. My babushka taught me systema spetsnaz.” He pauses. “It is Russian, Sir.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” Jim mumbles. “Please just - stay safe.”

Chekov nods. “Yes, Keptin. I will. Will you be joining us?”

Jim shakes his head. “Honestly I’m probably just going to crash at the hotel. That last mission took it out of me.” He snorts. “Might as well put my slippers on and curl up with a blanket, not like I could be more pathetic.”

“Not pathetic, just tired,” Chekov smiles, and actually pats Jim’s shoulder. He then immediately turns puce, but it’s an improvement.

The hotel is pretty nice, in all fairness. Jim strips off and has a shower, a proper water one, and feels his muscles unwind. There’s some fancy complimentary shampoo and soap, so when he steps out he smells like passion fruit and mango. He drags a towel through his hair then steps into a loose shirt and some sweats, before flopping down onto the criminally soft bed,

He’s just set on a old holo vid of Legally Blonde - the twenty first century had chick flicks down - when there’s a knock on the door. Jim squishes a pillow over his face and groans. He really wants to be left alone - he wasn’t kidding when he told Chekov he’s knackered. Oh god - what if it’s Uhura and they’ve lost Chekov already? Fuck.

Jim stalks over to the door and yanks it open.

Spock arches an eyebrow at him. “Jim.”

“Thank god, I thought you were Chekov,” Jim groans. He kicks the door further open, noticing the small chess board Spock has tucked under his arm. “We should never have let him go out. Is this what having a kid is like? Sulu called me a space dad the other day and I almost gutted him.”

Spock places the chess set down on the bed. “Having never been a parent, I feel under qualified to answer your query. However, you do bear the responsibility of the lives of your crew, which could be comparable to the burden of parenthood.”

“Do you want to play?” Jim asks. He rubs at his eyes. “I was going to watch a film but it’s a nice night. We could play on the balcony.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Spock stiffens up. “You have other plans. I will leave - “

Jim catches his arm instinctively. He tries to ignore the heat that bleeds into the pads of his fingers. “Spock, it’s fine. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. I’d rather spend time with you anyway.”

He flushes as soon as the words slip out of his mouth, but he means it, and he doesn’t take it back. Spock’s eyes soften slightly, and Jim clears his throat. “What’s in the box?”

Spock opens the lid of the small, cardboard box he had been carrying. Jim peers inside in interest. “Fruit?”

Spock nods. “I purchased it from a vendor at the local market. I believe it is grown in the fields we flew over as we landed.”

They look like berries, small and round with a deep purple sheen. Jim plucks when out of the box and bites into it. It’s sweet, sweet and tangy, and he can’t hold back a moan. He swallows and grabs another. “Spock, these are so good!”

Spock nods. “I am gratified you like them.”

Jim pauses with another berry halfway to his lips. He’s in a plain black ensemble, what probably passes as casual clothes for him. When he catches Jim’s gaze, his lips part slightly. His cheeks are dusted with the lightest green,

Jim feels reckless suddenly, his blood singing with adrenaline. His lifts his hand, and his fingers are shaky. “You should try one,” he says hoarsely, and his tone lilts at the end, like it’s a question.

Tentatively, Jim brings the berry to Spock’s lips. He sways closer unconsciously, and their bodies are a perfect parallel to one another. He’s close enough to count Spock’s eyelashes. He’s close enough that Spock must see the shiver that goes through him as Spock tugs the fruit from his hand.

Jim’s heart is thumping so hard in his chest that Spock must be able to hear it. Spock’s lips brush the pad of his fingers.

Jim whispers, “Spock,” and that’s when Spock kisses him.

They’re close, so close, but only their mouths touch, soft, chaste, gentle. When they break apart Spock’s eyes are dark, so dark, and he’s looking at Jim like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Jim can taste Spock’s lips on his own.

 

-

 

_four and a half_

Spock pushes him back on the bed. He mouths along Jim’s jaw, mouth hot and fierce and with a hint of teeth. Jim reaches for him, trails his hands over broad muscle, reaches and reaches and reaches, only there’s a crack and -

“Fuck,” Jim yelps, shoving at Spock’s chest. “Stop, stop!”

Spock pulls back immediately. Every single muscle locks and he yanks his hands away as though he’s been burnt. Every single shutter goes down. “I apologise. Would you - “

Jim wiggles. “Chess set.”

Spock gapes at him. Jim wiggles some more and pulls the offending object out from behind him. “The chess set was still on the bed.”

Spock blinks. His hair is ruffled from where Jim ran his hands through it, and it makes his palms ache. He’s never felt like this before, never felt the need to know someone inside and out, to collect every single part of a person and spread them out to gaze at.

Abruptly, Jim’s feels a bubble of laughter build in his chest. Once it’s started he can’t stop, and then Spock starts glaring at him, and he only laughs harder. “No, no, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

“Feel free to share your source of amusement,” Spock says tightly, and Jim reaches up and cups Spock’s face. He runs his thumb up and down each cheekbone, smirking when Spock flushes as he brushes the tip of a pointed ear.

“You came here to play chess,” Jim manages, and that just cracks him up again.

Spock shoves a hand down his pants, and that shuts him up pretty quickly.

 

-

_and a half_

 

Jim pulls off Spock’s dick to say, “You should have brought cream.”

Spock has one hand thrown over his eyes. The effort it takes to move his hand down looks physically painful. “Excuse me?”

Jim, happily propped up on his elbows between the vee of Spock’s legs, nods. “Cream. If you wanted to get kinky with food in bed you should have brought cream.”

“Shut up,” Spock snaps, and Jim grins.

 

-

 

_and a half and a half and a half_

 

Spock makes him get a flannel to clean up but after that they curl up together. Jim presses his cheek against Spock’s chest, feels the steady thump of his heartbeat, one in a different place to his own.

Spock winds an arm around him, strong and warm. He runs the knuckles of his free hand up and down Jim’s flank. Jim presses his mouth to the skin below him, and Spock’s arm tightens.

“I love you,” Jim mumbles, and a kiss is pressed to his temple and -

 

 

-

 

_five - captain for a year and three months - gross and domestic for four HA fuck those slut shamers from back at the academy_

The thing about seriously traumatising events that fuck you up before you even get your first stubble, is that they don’t stop affecting you because you have a hot vulcan sleeping in your quarters every night.

I mean, it definitely helps. Jim sleeps easier with Spock around, and although Spock needs less sleep than him, Jim rarely wakes up alone. Spock just maneuvers him like a sleepy puppy, Jim’s face pressed to the crook of his neck, a hand tangled in Jim’s hair while Spock taps away on a PADD.

They get a call to a planet a few thousand light years from Earth. There’s been an outbreak of a parasitic virus that attacked their crops. Fortunately, they managed to isolate it and it’s under control. However, there are concerns it can reach other planets, so the scientists want the cure to be logged and saved with Star Fleet. Not to mention the cure could be useful for further genetic research.

Jim, because he’s a fucking professional, does everything required of him. He sends down Spock and Sulu along with a chosen team of science officers. He also sends Uhura, because she really is incredible at communications.

He keeps updated with their progress, signs off on all the relevant forms, and thanks the planet leaders when they’re done. He then calmly works the rest of alpha shift, before handing the con to Spock for beta.

When Spock comes to find him later it takes him longer than usual, because Jim’s curled up in Spock’s quarters, not his. This earns him an eyebrow raise as the door hisses open. Spock doesn’t say anything though, just comes to sit on the bed as he slides his boots off.

Once he’s done he places them neatly under the bed. Jim’s lying on his side, knees slightly curved, and Spock mimics his position. They’re facing each other, bodies curled together likes commas.

“Hey,” Jim mumbles.

Wordlessly, Spock raises his hand. Jim raises his, and when their palms touch he feels the shock of gold that always goes through him. Spock curls his hand so just the tips of their fingers are joining. “Hello.”

Wordlessly Jim reaches up, brushes his knuckles over Spock’s cheekbones. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“In this context I didn’t expect your presence in my quarters. Therefore the use of that term is an earnest one.” Spock leans forwards and brushes his mouth over Jim’s, the lightest touch of lips. He tastes cool. “You performed your duties with complete efficiency today. You delegated your duties appropriately and we managed to retrieve samples of the virus. The mission was a success.”

Jim chews on his bottom lip. “Yeah, I know. I’m a fucking pro, I wasn’t going to break down on the bridge or anything. Doesn’t stop me feeling like crap though.” Doesn’t stop the dull throbbing in his temple, the ghostly hands around his throat that squeeze and squeeze.

Spock’s eyes are very dark. “Even if you had ‘broken down on the bridge,’ it would not be an illogical response. Unpredictable and sudden changes in behaviour are expected after a traumatic event. Not matter how long ago it was.” He pauses. “It is nothing to feel shame for, ashayam.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Jim grumbles, but he allows Spock to carefully tug his lip from between his teeth. He considers, relaxing as Spock rubs careful circles over his hip. “I guess I handled it better this time.”

Cool fingers slide under his chin, lifting his head up. “You are not broken,” Spock states simply, “therefore you do not need to be ‘fixed.’”

Jim is helpless in that, in the face of words so pure, so he pushes Spock into the pillows and the butterflies soar.

 

-

 

_before before before_

Jim sinks his teeth into apple and smirks.

It snaps under his bite and it tastes sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to write a little more for this pairing, so hopefully the people who got through all of this don't think I should never, ever do that again :D on a side note I am going to see Beyond on Sunday and I am soooo excited
> 
> Side note: I personally struggle with my eating due to anxiety and stress related issues, so a lot of things Jim does I do too (picking at food and only eat small bits for example). So a lot of this is drawn from personal experience.  
> 
> [the link for the fic on Tumblr is here!](http://ariadneodair.tumblr.com/post/148145142477/and-i-will-rise-up-from-the-ashes-now-jim-kirk)


End file.
